


the kiddie corral

by iimpavid, It_MightBe_Love



Series: the batmom multiverse [6]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Jewish Characters, Kidfic, Philanthropy, Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28408167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/It_MightBe_Love/pseuds/It_MightBe_Love
Summary: Ralston is a busy enough street at midday and Jason has himself parked on the side of what is probably a reputable business that has no use for the likes of him. But it also has no use for security cameras so there's no risk of being run off in the near future. He leans and smokes and fiddles with his phone and, occasionally, watches the homeless woman panhandling across the street.
Series: the batmom multiverse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1045682
Kudos: 4





	the kiddie corral

**Author's Note:**

> Altogether now: thanks endlessly to Sereneville for requesting that I post more of this multiversal concept and supporting Jason Todd's clear need for more stable and loving people in his life. He deserves the whole world.
> 
> Unfinished and unbeta'd but presented to you in good faith nonetheless.

Ralston is a busy enough street at midday and Jason has himself parked on the side of what is probably a reputable business that has no use for the likes of him. But it also has no use for security cameras so there's no risk of being run off in the near future. He leans and smokes and fiddles with his phone and, occasionally, watches the homeless woman panhandling across the street. Dia's having a good day of it, sitting on her winter coat like a blanket with her cardboard sign that reads "anything helps" propped against the wall behind her with a coffee can. She's half-blind and has a tendency toward narcolepsy and gossip. Jason keeps an eye on her during her favorite haunts' busiest days, makes sure no one rips her off when she passes out cold or decides it's time she learned not to snitch to the GCPD. 

If Dia's stories are to be believed back in the day she was a dancer. A society kind of girl, too, with a love of diamonds and satin. Had a whole career lined up with the Gotham Philharmonic's ballet. When she was his age-- young and stupid, as she fondly puts it-- she'd been set for Juliard. Now she'd been formally disinherited from her family's estate and spent her days on street corners trying to stay coherent long enough to get spare change together for the McFriendly's dollar menu.

_ And that, kids, is why you shouldn't do smack. _

That's the story, at least, and Jason can't have nice things so he gives in and researches the identity of "Dia" Turner to see if she's full of shit. Halfway through an article on a Turner family scandal involving an interrupted threesome and attempted murder-- these people sure got around, related to his favorite junkie or not-- he looks up. There's a woman approaching him with something like intent and that's not a common sight in Crime Alley when the woman in question is wearing Louboutins and Dior.

His cigarette burned down to the filter and he drops it, grinds it into the pavement with his bootheel. "You lost, lady?"

April's seen the guy for a couple of days. He's in his early twenties if he's a day, even with a shock of white hair gracing a widows peak like he's an homage to Lost Boys and Keifer Sutherland is going to crawl out of the woodwork and offer him a ride to Neverland.

She's mixing genres and probably metaphors. 

She makes the latkes because she's discovered they're a number one favorite for kids on the street. Even the older ones, and this one, for all he has a phone and he's chain-smoking like a factory chimney, has the look of someone who's spent too long on the streets.

April left home at fourteen because she got pregnant, it didn't matter that she miscarried barely into the first term, she'd gotten to start at Brown and the fact that she hasn't spoken to her family since then outside her grandmother, Katherine, who nominally isn't considered a Miller ANYWAY, has done nothing to deter the maternal instinct in her that has her bearing down on the homeless population of Gotham.

Philanthropist by night, professor of linguists by day, and latke maker-- 

"No--" her eyebrows narrow and she holds up the rubbermaid container with latkes. The walls are steamy and the container is still warm to the touch, "But I've seen y'lurking on th'corner like you got somethin' t'prove an' I figured I'd come say hello, offer up some latkes. Th'recipe's m'babcia's-- s'famous. Leastways she puts it--" an elegant shrug. April stands out in Crime Alley like a beacon of clean, well-dressed high society.

She was almost mugged once before one of Penguin's lackeys saw her coldcock the guy with the gun, and had rushed over to make it clear that "Dr. Adler is a personal friend of the Penguin's--"

It's the fifteen hundred dollar shoes she wears like they're two dollar sneakers.

She lifts the rubbermaid up, "Dr. Adler--" she offers up a smile that's more genuine warmth than she usually affords donors. She's got a soft spot for kids-- "If y'want. Y'oughta see if Dia 'cross th'street'll submit t'poppin' by the Adler Center down th'block. There're doctors in t'day."

"How observant." Jason narrows his eyes at the container like it might bite him if he reaches for it. "I'm not lookin' for a handout, sorry, Doctor." 

She accepts the rebuttal with good grace drilled into her by her babcia and watches him cross the street to convince Dia to head to the center. She heads that way herself -- the Adler Center's reception hall looks a lot like any other sort of charitable foundation hall. It's sterile white tile out of necessity, comfortable micofiber furniture that are easily cleaned without looking inexpensive. The receptionists desk is behind a plate glass window. It's Crime Alley.

But there's a reason the Adler Foundation is listed in the top five philanthropic foundations in the world, and it isn't only because April is a genius and a workaholic. The Adler Foundation is known for their good work.

He makes straight across the street-- in the exact opposite direction of the latkes that smell delicious and friendly and full of magnificent carbohydrates-- because nothing is actually free in Gotham and he knows better than to accept hot meals from strangers. Just look where it's got him. A cab blares its horn at him and true to jaywalker etiquette he flips it off, barely pausing to let it pass half a foot in front of him before carrying on his merry way. 

"Hey, Dia, how's the hustle going?" 

She blinks up at him lazily, " 's good, th'best. What'd'ya-- How's it you know me?" 

"On the nod, huh? Hope it's worth it." He squats down beside her, lights another cigarette. The change in her coffee can should be about five bucks' worth and he has to wonder how she scounged up enough to get this high. He's been watching her a week now and she's been solidly broke. "We're friends, Dia. You used to babysit me before you got too friendly with my dad." 

She mumbles something to herself then looks at him again, "Got any spare change?" She's not wearing a coat despite the chill of early autumn and the trackmarks on her right arm have gone red and angry. It's entirely possible, he's sure, that she's glassy eyed and slow from fever and blood poisoning.

"Nope. Gotta friend you'd like t'meet though. You wanna close up shop for an hour?"

"I know you."

Jason's not sure if she's telling or asking. "Yeah, for a long time now. C'mon, day's wastin' and you need medicine." He is definitely telling, not asking, and Dia does not appreciate being dragged upright by the arm like a ragdoll. He grabs her coffee can with his free hand. He puts an arm around her waist to keep her upright. She smells only fractionally better than the sewer and he gags twice before he can tell her, "It's just across the street, you'll see."

The Adler Center is shiny and too-clean in the way of all such gentrification-related projects. Cheap healthcare, free condoms, and murals are meant to soften the blow of skyrocketing housing costs. He settles Dia into a molded plastic hair-- bright orange, creative-- then goes to stand in line and check her in to the clinic. Even if all they do is send Dia back out the front door with Keflex and Ibuprofen she'll be better off than she is now. He shoves his hands in his pockets and glares at the clock above the bulletproof glass window that houses the receptionist. There are infinitely better ways to spend his Friday but if he's lucky these people will be quicker than the ER. 

A doctor comes 'round to bring Dia back to be seen and says -- "Uh... Dr. Adler said if you wanted, you were welcome to wait in the kiddy corral? It's story time--" He gestures through a set of doors, "So they're all a little rambunctious but her grandmother's in today which means it's basically the seventh circle of hell. Only with a dozen six to ten year olds and glitter."

Jason helps the nurse lever Dia upright; not that the nurse needs it, Dia's all bones.

"The kiddie corral?" His disdain is audible. 

He doesn't want a damn thing to do with grade schoolers and their art-herpes. The glitter will get everywhere and the last thing he needs is to go out on patrol with glittery guns. Not to mention kids scream and cry over nothing and, really, what kind of way to sell something is calling it "the seventh circle of hell"? 

The reasonable thing to do is leave. Dia's been safely delivered into the arms of medical professionals whose bills she'll never see or pay. He's done his Good Samaritan act of the week. It's time to catch a nap then spend his night murdering people who're marginally more evil than himself. He has no idea how he ends up in the back corner of the kiddie corral sitting cross legged in a beanbag chair. 

His feet carry him there of their own accord. Curiosity is a poison of the mind.

April glances up when the kid comes in and she quashes the urge to smile, instead she lets her babcia draw her into another chapter before Tricia from social services comes in to collect everyone for their weekly therapy sessions. 

An eight-year-old in a dinosaur sweater offers him a juice box and then he's stuck listening to Dr. Adler and a woman who looks old enough to  _ be _ God read Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. The two of them must have the book memorized because they're turning pages at random but reciting it perfectly. They're even doing the voices. 

The eight year old decides, since Jason has accepted the juice box, that he will also make an excellent beanbag companion. He climbs into Jason's lap and says, "I'm Ezra, an' one day Imma marry Dr. Adler because her hair is really shiny an' she smells like the plums she brought in for her birthday in September an' cause she punched my last foster dad so hard in the face she broke his nose because he hit me with a belt."

Ezra's two top front teeth are missing and he wiggles around until he's comfortable against Jason, like it's every day he decides random dudes in leather jackets are good Reading Time snuggle buddies, and offers to share his goldfish with him.

It’s hard not to smile at just how enamored this kid is of Dr. Adler and impossible not to approve of beating up on child-beaters. “Sounds like she’s an upstanding kinda lady. Did you get her a ring yet?”

Being a human chair is not Jason’s favorite pastime but Ezra is scrawny and so sweet with his missing teeth that Jason’s sure  _ he’s _ gonna need a root canal sometime in the near future and Jason has no choice but to tolerate the tooth decay. Plus, he gets Goldfish. It’s satisfying to crack them in half along the seams of the two halves of the fish. Almost as satisfying as beheading gummy bears.

The rhythm of being read to is soothing. He could fall asleep to it and that knowledge keeps his attention rapt, minding the exits, the occasional shuffling of adults outside the reading room, the traffic outside. By the time the book closes Jason’s comfortably tense but he still somehow fails to duck out before the kids get between him and freedom, all of them crowding toward the door and the caseworker there to retrieve them.

April and her babcia exchange a short conversation in yiddish before her grandmother throws her hands up and says, "--tsigele-- just go talk to him, you know it will keep bothering you until you do--" she points at Jason, "Ask him if he likes old black and whites. I need some hot new blood for my fan club--"

April flails, "Bubbe! He's young enough to be  _ my _ kid--"

"Go on-- look at those muscles on that boy." April flees before her grandmother can get any grosser.

Waiting for the kids to clear out Jason tries not to fidget or acknowledge that he’s clearly being talked about. It’s not Russian they’re speaking, not German, or any other language he’s acquainted with. But he says, “If you got somethin’ to me you should say it instead of talkin’ about it,” anyway, looking between Dr. Adler and her grandma with distinct impatience. 

April waves a hand at her grandmother and wanders over, smiling as Ezra scrambles from Jason’s lap and follows the horde of children streaming from the kiddie corral. (Kiddie corral is a bit of a misnomer, the room is the size of a small gymnasium, filled with bookshelves and area rugs and soft surfaces to sprawl across)--

“I was about t’come over an’ say hello an’ let you know the doctors wanna keep your friend overnight. She’s got a infection in her blood, they’ve got’er on IV antibiotics.” She glanced over her shoulder and said, “Please ignore everythin’ my  _ babcia _ was sayin’. She likes t’think that bein’ as old as th’primoridal ooze gives her leave t’be inappropriate.” 

**Author's Note:**

> It is by your comments, fair readers, that I live, die, and post more content.


End file.
